Praise for Darren O’Sullivan

‘Dark, gripping and with a twist that leaves you breathless’

John Marrs

‘Utterly brilliant … the final twist left me breathless. Darren O’Sullivan is proving himself time and again as an exceptional storyteller’

Lisa Hall

‘I was gripped by this taut and emotional thriller’

Louise Jensen

‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn’t let go’

Michele Campbell

‘Exquisitely written … a ripping good read’

Suzy K. Quinn

‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed. The final chapters had my heart in my throat! O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch’

Phoebe Morgan

‘An outstandingly taut story which grabbed me and then spat me out breathless at the end’

Angela Marsons

DARREN O’SULLIVAN is the author of psychological thrillers, Our Little Secret, Close Your Eyes and Closer Than You Think. He is a graduate of the Faber Academy and his debut novel, Our Little Secret, was a bestseller in four countries. He lives in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire where his days are spent either behind his laptop writing, in front of a group of actors directing theatre or rolling around pretending to be a dinosaur with his young son.

You can follow Darren on Twitter and Instagram @Darrensully or on Facebook/DarrenO’Sullivan-author.

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Our Little Secret

Close Your Eyes

Closer Than You Think

Dark Corners

Darren O’Sullivan

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Darren O’Sullivan 2020

Darren O’Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008342029

Version 2020-03-14

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008342012

To my boy, and my girl

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

15th July 1998

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

15th July 1998

I can’t sleep thinking about what we will do tomorrow.

I’m scared he will know; I’m scared he will be watching me…

Chapter 1

August 1998

Three weeks after…

Onward they trudged. Step by step. Deeper into the woodlands, trying as best they could to maintain the straight line they had been instructed to hold. They didn’t speak, they could barely look one another in the eye. They all knew just one look would confirm their worst fears, that the searching was in vain. They weaved around bushes and climbed unsteadily over fallen trees. The mud, thick and heavy, made progress even slower, and on a few occasions the sludge underfoot dragged wellington boots clean off tired feet. The summer had burnt bright and long, one of the hottest on record. But the woods were dark, cold. The air didn’t move there, but hung heavily, its damp breath ancient, a thousand whispered secrets over a thousand years, clinging to everything within. And somewhere within, she might be alive. Hoping to be found. It had been three weeks since she had vanished, three long weeks. It didn’t ring the bell of hope. Regardless, they didn’t stop moving, they didn’t stop looking.

In the middle the group walked Neve. She moved silently, helped those who were stuck and in return was helped when she became stuck herself. They had walked for long enough that the snapping of twigs and rustle of animals moving in the undergrowth no longer startled them. Upon reaching a clearing, they were told by the search leader, a policeman called Thompson who had led the investigation, to stop and rest. Finding a felled tree, Neve sat and took a moment to look up through the thick canopy of summer leaves to see the sky beyond. It was beginning to morph in colour as day changed into night, a beautiful pink hue wrapped around a cloud. It looked contented, peaceful, oblivious. She assumed it would be another hour until it was too dark to continue, and that would mean another night passed with no sign of her, the twenty-second long night in the scared village. Neve caught her father watching from the small group stood in a circle, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, discussing the next step. He smiled, trying to be reassuring, but she could see the worry in his eyes. He looked tired, older somehow. But then again, everyone in the village now looked tired and old, and afraid.

After a few minutes of rest and foot rubbing, boots were back on and they were moving again, quietly scanning the patch of ground in front of each step. Punctuating the sound of snapped twigs, heavy breathing of those less fit, wind through the treetops and bird call was one word spoken every now and then. A single name, her name.

Chloe.

Neve could hear the way that it had changed in the past few days. They used to call for Chloe as a question. As if to say, Chloe, can you hear us? Chloe, where are you? Now, the question mark had gone, the tone had deepened. Her name was now called because it was something they needed to do. If they fell silent the search would be over. With each day, each night, the hope dwindled. A few nights out alone, a person could survive. A week would be tough, but not impossible, but after three, without a sign or sound, it didn’t look good. And it placed them all in the awful position of wanting to find her, but not being the one to find her. No one said it, but as Neve looked at those around her, she could see fear in their eyes – a fear of being the one to stumble across a 16-year-old girl, face down in a bog, bloated and blue. The village was used to accidents, death even. The mine that the village was built around had been a dangerous place to work, and men and women were often injured, sometimes horrifically. Pain and loss were a part of who they all were, it was part of their DNA. But no one was prepared to find Chloe. ‘This sort of thing doesn’t happen here,’ they said to one another after she had gone missing. ‘We look after our own.’

Despite the seriousness of Chloe’s disappearance, gossip was rife. And being a small, ex-mining village, gossip quickly became political. The ‘scabs’ who’d crossed the picket line in 1984 blamed the strikers, while they in turn insisted it was one of the ‘scabs’. When on the rare occasion the gossip didn’t thrive on the bitter feud that ran like ice though the vein of the village, the adults whispered, in agreement, about Chloe’s mother, Brenda, who everyone knew had been vile and cruel to Chloe since the day she was born. It had been noted that Brenda hadn’t been on one single search, but instead holed herself up at home, curtains drawn, refusing to speak to anyone until the police banged on her door. It was widely discussed that if anyone had harmed Chloe, it would have been Brenda. There was also another name that they should have been discussing, a name that Neve and her friends had spoken to the police about, a name that was only ever mentioned by the adults in the village after a few drinks in The Miners’ Arms or social club. A name that when brought up, sent a shiver down the spine of the highly superstitious community.

The Drifter.

They didn’t know who he was, and apart from Neve and the rest of her friends, no one else had seen him. He had been spotted hanging around the closed mine, always at night. And, most worryingly, Chloe herself had told Neve he had been hanging around outside her house just before she vanished.

The police were looking for him, stating he was a person of interest. They speculated that whoever he was, he was indeed connected to the mine. Which meant he more than likely lived in the village itself. But so far, no one had been spoken to, no one arrested. It was as if he were a ghost.

The line of people searching came to a clearing that looked towards the mine. The small part of woodland they needed to search showed no signs of Chloe. It was time to return to The Miners’ Arms, where they would either go home, or learn the next quadrants they intended to search before heading out again, light permitting. Neve was tired, and although she wanted to continue to look, as she landed on familiar territory of tarmac underfoot, her legs wobbled and failed her. Her father instinctively caught her before she hit the ground.

‘Neve, you need to sleep.’

‘I need to help.’

‘You can’t like this. You need to sleep, come back fresh.’

‘Dad, I’m fine.’

‘Neve, please. I know…’

‘Dad, you don’t know anything. Just leave me alone.’

Neve pulled herself away from her father and bounded towards the pub, her unsteadiness resolved by her defiance. As she entered, the noise of a thousand conversations swept over her. The energy inside was electric; the village determined to find the missing girl. The pub tables had maps rolled out, the corners held flat with pints of bitter. People were beginning to tie the laces on hiking boots and check torch batteries, ready to head out on the next wave. But, as the door closed behind her, the energy dipped as people noticed her entrance. Some sympathetic smiles were offered, as well as gentle nods of recognition. She knew they wanted to ask her about the Drifter, whether he was real or supernatural. She was glad they didn’t. Because, although she didn’t believe in ghosts, what other explanation was there?

After the brief dip with her entrance, the electricity increased as the next wave of searchers readied themselves to step into the woods, until the landlord held a radio to his ear and shouted:

‘Everyone, shut up! Something’s going on.’

Silence swept through the pub, everyone looking towards the landlord who turned up the radio and asked whoever was on the other end to repeat what they had said.

‘We’ve found something, over by the old mine entrance,’ a male voice returned, his desperation and sadness clear for everyone to hear.

‘What – what have you found?’ the landlord asked.

‘A top. We’ve found a top. It’s covered in blood.’

Chapter 2

19th November 2019

Morning

I roll onto my side. Open my eyes, stretch. The edge of a dream lingers for just a moment, and with it a smell. Before I can process what it is, it fades. I can’t remember what was in my dream either, but as my heart is racing, I know it can’t have been good. I wait for my head to begin to throb. Nothing. Maybe I’ve dodged a bullet this morning? Maybe I remembered to drink a pint of water and eat a teaspoon of sugar? They say it helps to stave off a hangover.

I wait to hear Oliver moving in the flat; he has always been better in the mornings than me. I expect to hear him flicking on a kettle or the news playing on the TV in the lounge. But it’s quiet, and then it hits me, hard. A crippling blow to my stomach. Of course, it’s quiet, Neve, you idiot. Oliver left. Oliver left three weeks ago. I must try to not forget that. It only makes it harder. I sigh and roll onto my other side, facing where he used to lie beside me. The corner of his pillow feels cold against my cheek. But then really, if I’m being honest with myself, it was probably cold against my cheek long before he left.

A dim morning light comes through the window. I didn’t draw my curtains, again. From where I lay, I can see the trees in Brent Lodge Park. Oliver loved that about this flat, always saying the trees and that huge expanse of grass on the park was our back garden. He loved how green it was, the birdsong that floated into our bedroom in summer.

Outside looks cold, the sun is early in the sky, I guess it’s about half past six. Colder than yesterday. I think I’ll just stay in bed for half an hour longer. I grab my phone; the screen is blurry. I look in the bedside unit to find my glasses. They aren’t there. God knows where I’ve left them this time. Squinting I open my clock app and set an alarm, just twenty more minutes and I’d get up for work. But I see the time. It’s 8.41 a.m. I’m late. Again. And I knew Esther was going to be pissed.

Jumping up, I make a dash for the bathroom, then as I fumble into yesterday’s clothes which lay in a heap at the foot of my bed, I feel the drill in my skull start to vibrate, its intensity growing with every second until my eyes ache. I never had hangovers when I was young. Now, they were making up for lost time, hammering me harder than I felt they should. Dressed, I run for the door, grabbing my glasses which were on the radiator shelf where I keep my keys, which of course weren’t there. I check the kitchen sides, moving two empty bottles of wine into the recycling bin. I check the coffee table in the living room, down the side of the sofa, coat pockets. I even check in the fridge. But I cannot find them. Deciding I’ll leave and call the landlord to let me in later, I grab my bag and open the front door. Hanging on the other side is a photo fob of me and Oliver, swinging from my front door key which is sat in the lock.

‘Shit, Neve.’

Closing the door behind me I pocket my cold keys and walk as fast as my hangover, which was beginning to steam-roll over me, would allow, towards the station. It was a short walk to Hanwell station where I would hop onto the train to Ealing Broadway. A quick walk across to the Underground and then the Central line for five stops to Shepherd’s Bush. On the other side, ten minutes to work. On a good day, I could do the commute in twenty-five minutes. But I could already tell it wasn’t going to be a good day, and regardless, I was supposed to be at work for nine. It was now 8.52 a.m. There was no way I would be on time. Taking out my phone, I took a deep breath and called Esther.

‘Good morning, The Tea Tree.’

‘Esther, it’s Neve.’

‘Neve? Where are you?’

‘Running late.’

‘Again.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You sound hungover.’

‘I’m all right, just tired. I’ll get an Uber.’

I could hear her sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘That’ll cost a fortune. Anyway, it’s pretty quiet. When do you think you’ll get here?

‘Half past, at the very latest.’

‘Right.’

‘And later, why don’t you go home early? I’ll look after the place. How does that sound?’

‘You’ve just dug yourself out of a hole.’

‘Thought I might.’ I smiled, having lightened the mood which had seemed strained between us over the past few weeks. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She hesitated and I knew what was about to come; it was the conversation she had started on several occasions in the last few weeks but stopped herself for fear of making me feel worse. I had cut her off every time with some distraction, but this time I just waited for her to continue, knowing she needed to get it off her chest.

‘Neve, I get what you’re going through, I really do, but we are partners in this. That means we share the work, share the responsibility.’

‘I know, Esther, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m going to try harder. This isn’t fair.’

‘I get things are pretty shit for you right now. But they aren’t easy for me either.’

‘Of course.’

‘My childminder costs have gone up, and I can’t afford to be here all the time, both for my family, and my pocket.’

I knew what she was saying without actually saying it. She was telling me I didn’t have responsibly like she did. I didn’t have a two-year-old who needed my time. I didn’t have the mortgage she had. My life was a mess, but it was still less complex than hers. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry, Esther.’

‘I hate being a nag.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re more than entitled to be pissed off. I’m just grateful you can say it.’

‘Me too. See you soon.’

She hung up and I knew, despite her being kind and understanding, she had had just about enough of my apologies. As I entered the train station, I vowed to make it up to her somehow. Although I wasn’t quite sure how or where I would start. Hanwell station was packed, as expected. And as I fought my way through the small gaps in the crowds, I wished I’d showered as I became conscious of my own smell of sleep and booze and regret. Ducking behind a brick pillar I opened my bag and rifled until I found a small canister of body spray, quickly coating myself in its sweet floral scent. An older person stood close by looked at me disapprovingly, but I didn’t care. I still didn’t smell clean, but at least I didn’t smell of body odour.

A train pulled in and I jostled with the crowd on board, my shoulders pressed between two men who were much taller than me – one had his armpit perilously close to my face. Still, at least he had had a shower that morning. As the train lurched from the station, I felt my stomach lurch with it and within a minute I could feel a sweat start to break out across my top lip. I tried to remember how much I’d had to drink last night. I remembered coming home from work about seven, eating a Pot Noodle for tea and pouring my first glass of wine. From there, I know I drank more – there were two bottles on the side this morning. I had to wonder: was it OK I had become someone who drank to excess most nights? I almost let myself wonder what Oliver would say about it. Thankfully, the train announced we were pulling into West Ealing, stopping me from hearing his voice. It wasn’t healthy. I wanted to convince myself that I still didn’t know why he left, and that it was a complete shock, but I think deep down I saw it coming. He said we had grown apart; we had become different people. He was right, of course. He was open, honest, he had no shadows, he thought of the future, of the things that came with the future. Things I couldn’t bear thinking about. I guess I had always known it, but I didn’t see it, I didn’t want to. I saw us having our problems, as all couples did, but I thought we would work through our differences. I knew he loved me fiercely. And I loved him the same. I really thought we would go the distance. But love isn’t enough, is it?

When I found his letter three weeks ago, I assumed, right up until the moment I opened it, it would be a note saying something sweet and funny. My heart crumbled when I read that he wasn’t coming back. The things I thought were little and we could work through were impossible for him.

The man beside me coughed, making my head thump. He apologised and I smiled, but judging by his reaction, I was fairly sure it looked more like a grimace. Embarrassed, I looked away and opened my bag to grab a packet of ibuprofen. I swallowed three dry, then I pressed my head against the cold glass of the train door and counted my breathing, stopping myself thinking about Oliver, until Ealing Broadway came into view.

Fighting my way off the train, I allowed myself to be swept up in the crowd heading towards the Underground and onto the Central line to finish my journey. I grab a bottle of water en route from a newsagent to stave off the claggy feeling in the back of my throat, forewarning me I would throw up, unless I was careful. As I paid, I looked through the gap in the sliding door where the cigarettes sat, wanting to be smoked. I almost asked for a pack of Marlboro but stopped myself. I was fucking up today as it was without having a cigarette after so long without one. So, I boarded the Tube with a fault sense of victory. After what felt like a lifetime crammed into the metal carriage, I made it to Shepherd’s Bush, unscathed.

The Tea Tree, the coffee shop Esther and I set up three years ago, was about half a mile from the station and the walk usually took about ten minutes. However, as I stepped in the front door, the blast from the overhead heater making me feel nauseous once more, I saw it had taken me nearly twenty minutes to cover the short distance.

There were five people inside, two older couples sitting and talking, and a woman on her own stirring a cup of tea. I didn’t catch a single eye as I made my way out back. As I passed the till, I couldn’t even look at Esther. I knew what face she would have on – her ‘I’m really pissed off but worried’ look she’d perfected ever since our second year at uni. I was feeling too sensitive to deal with it. She would calm down, she always did. Then we would talk and laugh and enjoy our work together. And she would go home to her family, and I would hold the fort until closing time this evening.

Disappearing into the stockroom-cum-staffroom, I took off my coat, hung my bag on my peg and donned the floral apron that was my only uniform requirement. I hesitated before stepping back into the shop. My head was still pounding but I knew it wouldn’t be long until the ibuprofen kicked in. Until then, I needed to paint on a smile, and pretend I hadn’t drunk and probably cried myself into oblivion the night before. Easy, right? Just another Tuesday. Just another morning.

Chapter 3

19th November 2019

Evening

With the last customer gone I locked the shop door and closed the blinds, and felt exhausted. My hangover had faded by lunchtime, thankfully, but it had been replaced with an emptiness that had lasted the rest of the day, and with Esther leaving early, the final few hours of serving people, smiling politely and cleaning up the mess created by toddlers had been a slog. I hoped people didn’t think I was being rude. I tried my best to be upbeat, but really, I bet it came across as just beat. And now that the day was done, I wanted nothing more than to step under a hot shower before falling into bed. But I couldn’t go home, not just yet – Esther had left me a list of chores. I should have been a little annoyed she didn’t trust me to undertake the jobs needed for our business. But then again, these past few weeks, I’ve hardly been a paragon of trust. Sometimes it felt like she was actually my boss rather than my business partner. I guess that said more about me than her.

Grabbing the list, I walked over to the speakers and connected my phone. Opening my music app, I loaded my ‘classics playlist’ and turned up the volume. Then, I set about cleaning the last remaining tables and loading the dishwasher. Tina Turner’s ‘Nutbush City Limits’ came on, a song that always made me feel better. It reminded me of a time long before business and broken hearts. A time before 1998. Before that night. Before Chloe.

That song, like all the others in my playlist, took me back to being young, perhaps nine or ten. Mum and Dad were still together, still happy, and my memories were of endless summer days, the smell of rain on hot tarmac, of Refresher sweets in paper tubes, of bike rides, noisy clackers in the wheels and beads on the spokes that created an almighty din as we rode. This song reminded me of my friends. All of them.

With the tables cleaned and the cups and plates in the dishwasher, I disinfected the counters and cashed up the till. Despite how I was feeling, it hadn’t been a bad day. Maybe the best mid-week takings we’ve had in a while. With the takings in hand, I was down to my last job. Double-checking the front door was locked, I went out back to the safe and opened it, removing the cash from Sunday and yesterday. Esther and I probably should bank every day, but it cost to deposit money, so we opted for twice a week instead. And whoever was last on Friday and Tuesday had to prepare for the bank run for the following morning. As I inputted the numbers and double-checked the amount in each denomination, I could feel a fresh headache begin to form behind my eyes. I knew I didn’t have any painkillers left, so instead I grabbed a miniature bottle of Shiraz from the wine shelf and opened it. I told myself a glass of wine whilst doing the books was a normal thing to do, that I was just like everyone else. It wasn’t true, of course – drinking while battling the hangover from the day before wasn’t normal at all. But I pretended and doing assuaged some of the guilt.

I sat at the table nearest the till and took off my glasses. I pinched the bridge of my nose, relieving a little of the pressure, and I let myself enjoy a few sips of the wine. Over the music, which had moved on from Tina Turner to an early Kylie Minogue, I could hear rain hitting the glass of the shop front. I used to love the sound of rain once, but not now. Outside in the street, the shapeless silhouette of a person came into view. They stopped outside the window. I couldn’t see their features through the blinds, and I couldn’t work out if they were looking directly towards me, or directly into the rainstorm. Regardless, I held my breath for a moment longer than I should have. My mind took me back to somewhere I didn’t want to visit. Just to be safe, I reached over and put the bag of cash behind the bin. When I looked up, whoever was there had gone. And then I thought, what if it was Oliver? What if he had come back to see me, to offer an explanation as to why he took off without offering so much as an apology for his inability to do it face to face?

Jumping up, I knocked my wine over and dashed to the door. I unlocked it and stepped outside. The rain was falling so hard it hurt the top of my head. I looked left and right, but I couldn’t see anyone. As I locked the door again, a shiver ran up my spine. I reasoned it was the cold rain, and nothing else, but still, I turned the music down before cleaning up the mess I made, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up on end.

When I’d finished preparing the morning bank run, I returned all of the money to the safe, grabbed my coat and locked the shop before walking as quickly as I could to the Underground. Despite it only being just after seven, it felt later, the darkness complete and all-consuming. The footpaths were littered with fallen leaves that only this morning looked beautiful; now they glistened like slugs under the streetlamps and were slippery underfoot. I walked fast, my head down, trying to see behind me until I reached the newsagent where I’d bought the water earlier today. I picked up a bottle of wine, paid, and feeling a little less uneasy I headed down the stairs into the warmer, stale air of the Underground.

Chapter 4

20th November 2019

Morning

I roll onto my side and try to open my eyes. I manage to open one, just a sliver and it closes again. My bedroom light is on, it’s too bright, it hurts too much. And the drill is there. Hammering away.

Shit, Neve. You did it again, didn’t you?

I fall out of bed, landing on my elbow, right on the knobbly bit that should have jolted pain into my hand, but instead it jolts the other way, a mainline straight into the space behind my eyes. The hammering becomes an intense throb. It hurts my head so much I think my eyes will burst. I gingerly get to my feet. I’m really hungover, more so than most days. I stagger into the kitchen, the bottle I bought on the way home is lying on its side, a small pool of red where the dregs had dripped. And there is a bottle of vodka beside it. Oliver’s vodka. I must have raised a glass to him last night. The bottle is empty. I cannot remember how much was in there when I got home after being spooked at work.

I go back into my bedroom to grab my phone. No missed calls, no texts, no fiancé saying he is sorry for leaving without taking anything with him. But the consolation is, it’s just before seven and I’m not late for work. I shower, wash my hair, dress. It helps. I feel less like I want to pass out. I try to find my glasses; I must have left them at work. I still have an hour before the café opens. But I want to show Esther I meant what I said, about trying harder. I can get the till ready. Warm the place up. I may even dig the Christmas decorations out of the box in the back of the storeroom and start giving The Tea Tree a more festive feel.

Despite the headache I’m feeling good about today and, grabbing a breakfast bar, I leave, locking my door behind me. It’s raining. Not like last night’s downpour, but the kind that feels like TV static on your skin. Stopping at the nearest shop I buy as many painkillers as I can without raising an eyebrow of suspicion, pop two and head into the station. Thankfully, the train is far less crowded than yesterday, and I find myself at Ealing Broadway in what seems much less time than usual. I even had a seat for the entire journey, a real treat.

The rain stopped as I left Shepherd’s Bush station, and with my painkillers starting to kick in, I took my headphones out of my coat pocket and plugged into my playlist. As I turned onto Richmond Way, I could see our café in the distance. And even without my glasses, I knew something was terribly wrong. It was in the way people were slowing down as they passed the shop. The way they had to walk around something on the floor. I hoped I was mistaken, but as I drew closer, I could see rainwater shimmering on broken glass. A few more steps and I could see where the glass should have been. Our shop’s front door had been smashed in. I could see the tables and chairs scattered on the floor within. We had been robbed. I must have let out a gasp or a cry or something because people looked at me, their quizzical expressions changing as they realised it was my shop. I fumbled in my bag for my phone. It wasn’t there. I must have left it at home. Shit, Neve. Of all the days.

A woman approached, she asked if I was all right. I wanted to say no, of course I’m not bloody all right. But the words didn’t come.

‘Has, umm, could somebody ring the police, please?’ I asked, unable to look away from the mess inside the shop.

‘I have already. They’ll be here soon.’

I nodded towards her and started for the door, taking my keys out of my pocket as I approached.

‘Perhaps it’s best if you stay outside? Until the police arrive?’ the woman said. I didn’t look back, just put my key in the lock, trying to jiggle it open. It was stiff as it usually was, but eventually it gave, and I opened the door. I don’t know why I bothered. There was no glass in the frame. I could have stepped in without needing to unlock it. Just like the person who robbed us did.

The sound of glass crunching under my weight seemed to echo off the walls and squinting, I scanned the room. Tables had been overturned. Chairs knocked over. But, as far as I could see, nothing was missing. The glass was still intact on the serving counter but some of the cakes from the display cases were gone. With my heart pounding so hard I could feel it behind my eyes, I leant over the counter. I expected to see the till missing or smashed open but it too was untouched. My glasses sat on the top, where I left them last night. Putting them on, I looked around the café once more. It was a mess, but I couldn’t see anything, besides a few cakes, missing. It confused me. Why would someone break in for a piece of cake?

It didn’t take long before I could hear sirens approaching, followed by blue lights from the police car bouncing off the walls. Two officers stepped in, looked over the place, took my details, Esther’s details, and told me forensics would be out soon to dust for prints. They didn’t seem bothered by it all, but, I guess, awful as it was, little had actually been taken. They speculated it was probably a bunch of kids, but I was told not to tidy yet, not until the forensics had finished. All I could do was sit and wait for Esther to turn up so we could call a window company, our insurance, post on our Facebook page that we were shut – as well as everything else I knew we had to do but couldn’t yet process. I sat and waited for what felt an eternity for her to arrive, as I couldn’t call her. I didn’t know her number, it was stored in my phone as it had been for the past nearly two decades. Of all the days to forget your phone. I made a mental note to learn it. I bet she knew mine.

Esther arrived twenty minutes after the police left. She looked as shocked as I must have done.

‘Neve? What the fuck?’

‘Someone broke in last night.’

‘Shit!’

‘Yeah, shit.’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘Of course I have,’ I snapped. ‘Sorry. They’ve been and gone.’

‘Shit,’ she repeated as she stepped over a patch of broken glass and sat on a stool beside me. I wanted to hug her but didn’t.

‘I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t call the police!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Cheers, Esther.’

‘Sorry, I just… is there anything missing?’

‘A few cakes.’

‘Cakes?’

‘Yeah, a few chocolate muffins, some other bits.’

‘Is that it?’

Esther stood and walked towards the display and looked in behind the glass. Then, leaning over, she looked at the till.

‘They didn’t even touch it,’ I said.

‘That’s weird. Lucky, but weird,’ she replied as she sat beside me once more. We both stared at the chaos of the shop, passive, like we were at the cinema. ‘They just took cakes?’ she asked again.

‘Little shits with the munchies, no doubt.’

‘Really? Are kids that bad?’

‘Worse,’ I said quietly, remembering how when I was a kid, it wasn’t cakes but booze from the local off-licence. ‘I’ve been told not to tidy until they come to dust for prints. Otherwise I would have started.’

She nodded and looked to the bin which had been knocked over, the contents scattered on the floor. If we’d not been robbed, she would have no doubt said something about me not emptying them, especially as it was on the list. I almost offered an apology but saw she had narrowed her gaze on something and, following her eye line, I saw her look at the empty bottle of wine.

‘I only had one, while cashing up, and I paid for it.’

‘Neve, you were so hungover yesterday…’

‘It was only one. Just to take the edge off.’

‘That sounds like something a person with a drinking problem might say.’

‘I don’t have a drinking problem.’

‘That’s another thing they would say, right?’

‘Esther!’ I said, my voice sounding louder and more wounded than I intended.

‘Sorry, yes, now isn’t the time. I just worry about you.’

‘Well, don’t, OK? I’m all right. I’m on the mend.’

‘OK.’ She smiled. ‘So, I guess now all we can do is wait for the fingerprint people to come. Why didn’t you call me?’

‘Left my phone at home. Shall I make us a coffee?’ I asked, already getting to my feet as I knew what her answer would be.

‘Good idea. Neve?’

I turned and glanced back at Esther, who – for a moment – looked smaller than she usually did, her petite frame somehow swallowed by the mess around us. Although she called my name, she wasn’t looking at me, not at first, her eyes were back to the small empty bottle of wine on the floor. ‘Things will get better, you know that right?’

‘Yep,’ I responded too quickly. ‘The insurance will cover it; we’ve got a crime reference nu—’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said, bringing her eyes to mine. ‘You’re not keeping something from me?’

‘What, no, of course not.’

‘You were drinking a lot back at uni when… you know.’

‘Esther. I’m fine. I’m OK.’

I tried to smile, to show her I was all right, and she didn’t need to worry about me, she had enough on her plate. ‘I promise.’

‘OK,’ she said, not convinced. ‘I’ll find the insurance policy so we can give them a ring.’

‘I’m sorry, Esther,’ I said, although I had no idea why.

‘Me too,’ she replied before touching me on the shoulder as she made for the stockroom at the back. As I waited for the coffee machine to warm up, I looked at the door, the glass on the floor and I knew they wouldn’t find any prints. Kids were smarter than that, despite also being completely thoughtless sometimes. But, with only a few cakes missing, I knew no harm was really done. Kids just being kids.

Chapter 5

June 1998

Six weeks before…

‘So, Baz and I were bored the other night and decided we’d go for a walk,’ Michael started as he took a drag on his cigarette.

‘You’re always bored,’ interrupted Holly without looking at him. She was keeping watch on the school, making sure none of the teachers were unexpectedly patrolling the field several hours after school had finished.

‘Holly, you don’t need to keep watch now, we aren’t going to get into trouble.’

‘My dad would kill me if he thought I was smoking.’

‘But you’re not. And anyway, as soon as the bell sounds at 3.15, the teachers don’t give a shit what we do.’

‘But…’

‘Holly. They care even less just before 8 p.m.,’ Chloe added, trying to reassure her twitchy friend.

‘Sorry, you’re right.’ Holly smiled, resuming her thoughts about Michael. Most of his stories began in the same way: either he was bored, or Baz was bored, or they both were. And usually, his stories culminated in them being in trouble. That boredom had meant he had been suspended on three occasions in their secondary school career, and instead of sitting all fourteen exams, he would end up taking only nine.

‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ continued Michael, shooting a mean but playful look at Holly. ‘We were bored, and we went for a walk, and we discovered something really cool. Wanna see it?’

‘Not really,’ Jamie chuckled.

‘Come on, I promise, you’re gonna love it. You’re all gonna love it.’

Jumping to his feet, Michael urged the group to move.

‘How long will it take? I’ve got revision to do,’ Holly protested, and although Neve, Jamie and Georgia were thinking the same question, no one backed her up. It was typical of the group. Despite how closely knit they were, they still didn’t want to appear any different to Baz and Michael, who cared very little for anything besides having a good time.

‘I’m glad you mentioned the exams,’ Michael continued, ‘because what we found will help us with the stress of the bastards.’

Without waiting, Michael turned and walked away from the group towards the back corner of the school field, where a hole had been cut in the fence so they could nip out at lunch and buy cigarettes from the local corner shop. It had been there for years, before any of them started the school, and everyone knew about it. Baz joined at his side, followed by Jamie and Georgia.

Neve noticed Georgia was starting to change her look. Her usually unkempt hair was scraped back, and she could see the hint of make-up. It was subtle, and no one spoke of it, but Georgia was becoming one of the prettier girls within the group. And it changed how she walked. Instead of stomping like the tomboy she once was, she now held her head high, kept her gait light. It gave her a new air of confidence. She was blossoming, and although the boys hadn’t seemed to notice, Neve knew it wouldn’t be long before they did.

Chloe and Neve picked up the end of the group, curious about Michael and Baz’s ‘discovery’. The pair were a liability, but a lot of fun along with it. Georgia linked arms with Holly, probably making sure she didn’t bail as she so often did. As they walked, Chloe and Neve chatted about how there was nothing left to discover in the village. It was too small, too samey. After only a few minutes of walking, it became clear where they were being led, and it piqued everyone’s interest – even Holly’s. Michael and Baz had led them to Mine Lane, and as they stepped foot on it, everyone stopped. Mine Lane, and what was at the end of it, was the place ghost stories were written about. As kids they’d told each other tales of dark shadows walking aimlessly at night, and hearing the cries of those who had died. As young children, they’d run past its entrance, too afraid to look down in case a spectre grabbed them and dragged them below. That fear was still there, still tangible.

‘You do know we aren’t allowed in there?’ Jamie said, shifting from one foot to the other.

‘Yes, we know.’

‘Then where are we…’

‘You’ll see, have a little patience,’ Michael said, smiling knowingly to Baz. ‘Come on.’

Baz and Michael continued down the lane, and the group followed in silence, coming closer to the entrance of the old mine. They stood huddled together, and Neve looked back towards the main road, expecting someone to come and shout at them to leave things alone. The lane itself wasn’t forbidden, and there were no fences that stopped them walking down it, no signs – not like the mine. The ground was still sacred to the people who worked the pits and shouldn’t be tainted by anyone who didn’t. Everyone in the group had someone in their family who had once worked there, as did every soul in the village. But unless you’d actually descended to its belly, you were silently forbidden to go anywhere near it.

The mine had only been closed less than a year, and already the road was showing the signs of neglect. Cracks lined the tarmac as seeds from hardy weeds forced their way through. Above their heads, the trees were beginning to form a canopy, turning the road into a tunnel as the branches hadn’t been artificially pruned by passing lorries. And below the canopy, the few lamps that still contained a bulb didn’t light up the evening sky. The electricity supply had been cut off. The place felt desolate, the atmosphere tense to everyone except Baz and Michael who continued to bounce down the lane without a care in the world. Neve could see everyone was a little jumpy at the sounds that emanated from the densely packed trees. Chloe held her best friend a little closer, and thought of ghosts. Eyes watching. Waiting to spook them. With each step, it felt like the lane was getting darker.

Baz and Michael slowed as they drew close to the old entrance barrier that was still there, its paint faded and mossy. It was pointless it being there, as twenty feet behind it was the metal fence that surrounded the entire land of the colliery – a footprint that was larger than the rest of the village.

‘I’m not going in there,’ said Holly shakily as they stood in front of the barrier.

‘Me neither,’ agreed Georgia, who for once wasn’t worried about what anyone thought.

‘Please, as if we’d be that stupid,’ said Baz, waiting for someone to agree. No one did. ‘We aren’t here because of the mine.’

‘Yeah, there’s no way we would go down there,’ Michael agreed.

‘I thought you two were fearless,’ Chloe teased.

‘We are,’ said Baz, haughtily. ‘But no fucking way would we go there.’

‘Then why are we here?’ said Holly, checking her watch.

‘Because of this.’

Baz gestured to his left at the old security hut that once checked and allowed vehicles and foot traffic onto the site. The building, roughly the size of a large shed, was made of metal and concrete, designed to be hard-wearing and functional. The hut was positioned in front of a stand of trees, probably planted to act as a sort of barrier behind the hut. Its windows and doors were boarded up with sheets of metal that had been welded to the structure, intentionally impenetrable.

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Chloe, exasperated with the boys for wasting time and making her walk so far.

‘Well, we were thinking. You guys are so burnt out with exams and all that stuff,’ said Michael, not noticing Chloe’s annoyance. ‘So, we figured we needed a space to unwind and de-stress.’

‘Again, so why are we here?’

‘Come with me, I’ll show you.’

Taking Chloe by the hand, Baz led her towards the trees and guided her to squeeze between them and the hut, Michael urging the group to follow. It wasn’t until they traversed between the wall and trees that the group understood why Baz and Michael were so excited. There was a small hatch that hadn’t been welded shut, probably forgotten or overlooked. Baz dropped to his knees and opened the hatch inward, sliding his wide frame through the gap, disappearing from sight.

‘Come on!’ he bellowed from within, his voice sounding like he was shouting through a hand clamped over his mouth.

One by one the group followed and crawled through the small space until Michael, who was last, closed the hatch behind him. The darkness within was absolute, until Baz produced a small wind-up lantern, which created just enough light for the group to look around the small, claustrophobic space.

‘It’s not much…’ started Michael.

‘It’s a pit,’ said Georgia.

‘It’s technically breaking and entering. And it creeps me out, I wanna go home,’ added Holly, which was greeted with a scoff from Neve and an eye-roll from Georgia. Only Chloe nodded, spooked.

‘I mean, we all know the stories coming out of the mine,’ she said as a way of defence when Neve caught her agreeing.

‘Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts?’

‘No, of course not, Neve. But it’s creepy here.’

‘Yeah, it kinda is,’ said Georgia, nodding.

Baz looked crestfallen. ‘But that’s part of its charm, and with a little imagination, and a little change, it could be brilliant.’

‘This is what you dragged us out here for, to climb inside a concrete box?’

‘Use your imagination, Holly. Picture a bean bag here,’ said Baz, pointing towards the furthest corner, ‘and a little table next to it.’

‘Do the electrics work?’ asked Jamie, with a hint of excitement in his voice.

‘You know, we’ve not checked. Why?’

‘If they do, my dad’s got an old fridge, if we can get it here.’

‘There you go! Jamie gets it.’

‘I still don’t,’ said Chloe sulkily.

‘Chloe, you need this place more than anyone.’

‘Why would I—’

‘Because you and your mum don’t get on.’

‘So? Our parents do all of our heads in.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Georgia quietly, and instantly wished she hadn’t spoken. She knew they all talked about her dad when she was out of earshot.

‘Exactly,’ continued Baz, oblivious to Georgia’s unease. The whole group knew her dad hit her, despite her denying it on several occasions. ‘And we are stuck, listening to them whinge and moan at us about not eating our dinner or doing the bins.’

‘My mum gets on at me because I don’t clean up the dog turd,’ said Jamie.

‘My dad makes shitty jokes about the music I like,’ agreed Neve.

‘And who is it this week?’ asked Michael.

‘NSYNC, of course.’

‘It was Boyz II Men last week. Both crap.’

‘Anyway,’ interrupted Baz before a debate about musical taste ensued. ‘No one cares about this place anymore. And those who might probably assume it’s sealed. No one will know we are here. This could be our space. Not our parents’ or Nan’s,’ he said, looking towards Michael who lived with his grandmother, for reasons the group still didn’t know. ‘There won’t be anyone telling us what to do here. This can be a safe haven, to help those of us who care get through the exams.’

‘And those who don’t get to have some fun,’ Michael added before removing his rucksack and placing it on the floor. The familiar sound of glass clinking against glass made several in the group smile.

‘And on that note: I think we need to raise a toast to our independence,’ he said as he unzipped his bag and pulled out a case of alcopops.

‘Where the hell did you get those?’ Holly asked, alarmed at the fact they were hidden from the world and armed with booze.

‘I nicked them.’

‘You nicked them? From where?’

‘The offie,’ Michael said.

‘How?’ Jamie asked, impressed and alarmed in equal measure.

‘I do the paper round, don’t I? Anyway, a truckload of stock came in last night, Mr Busby was busy doing the take and I saw my chance. He’ll never know.’

‘Michael!’ Holly exclaimed, shocked and upset.

‘Oh, chill out, he’ll never know, and anyway, what does it matter, he owns the shop. He’s got more than enough money.’

‘It’s still stealing. Baz, I can’t believe you let him go through with this.’

‘Hey, don’t look at me, I had no idea until it was done.’

‘Badass!’ Georgia said, shocking Neve who expected her to be unimpressed.

‘It’s not a big deal. They were just sat by the door, and I took them. It’s not like I shoplifted.’

‘You did shoplift.’

‘Not the same, Holly. I bet old Busby saw me take them and couldn’t be arsed to say anything about it.’

‘Michael…’

‘Holly, it’s done now. Chill the fuck out.’

Baz nodded, as did Jamie, while Georgia gave Holly a look as if to say ‘stop being embarrassing’, and the conversation was over. He was right, it was done, and there could be no way to undo it. Michael handed out the bottles and opened each one with the bottom of his clipper lighter before uncapping his last. He raised his in the air, and everyone, including Holly, joined in.

‘Here’s to us, our space, and the freedom to make the choices we wanna make.’

‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Georgia, still unimpressed as they could just drink in the park, or Baz’s house when his parents were away.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Neve, eyeing Holly with a mischievous look that moved towards Chloe. ‘How about a ghost story?’

Chapter 6

20th November 2019

Morning

I finished making us a coffee – for Esther, a chai latte and a strong black Americano for me – and heard Esther swear angrily. She didn’t swear often, and the fact she had told me something was very wrong. Putting down the cups, I walked out back to find Esther on the floor, her face in her hands. At first, I thought she had banged her head on something and had called out in pain. I was just about to ask if she was OK, then I saw.

Beside her, the safe I had put all of our money in the night before was open, and it was empty. They hadn’t just stolen a few cakes. They stole half a week’s takings, a few thousand pounds. My legs felt like they were going to give way, so I stumbled to a chair and sat.

‘Why didn’t the police check in here?’ she asked, her voice barely audible.

‘I told them there was nothing missing.’

‘Then why didn’t you check, Neve?’

‘I… I don’t know.’

Esther looked up at me, and I could see anger in her eyes. I almost told her to calm down, to remember we’re insured. After she’d spoken next, the words failed me.

‘They didn’t break into it.’

‘What? I don’t…’

‘They didn’t break into the fucking safe, Neve. Look at it. Look.’

I looked once more to the open, empty safe. And she was right, there was no sign of forced entry. No scratches, no dents. The safe was simply open.

‘They either knew the code, Neve, or…’

‘How would they know they code?’

‘Or you didn’t lock it last night.’

‘No, I did, I’m sure I did.’

‘Neve, either you’ve given the code to someone…’

‘Why on earth would I do that? Are you saying I stole it?’

‘… or you left it open. Which is it?’

I racked my brain, trying to recall if I shut the safe after returning the money. I remembered the rain, spilling my wine. Seeing the silhouette through the blinds. I remember taking the money out back, putting it in the safe. Did I shut the door? Did I lock it? Yes, I was sure I did. But I was so hungover, so tired, distracted by the person I saw outside. I couldn’t be convinced.

‘Neve!’ Esther shouted, snapping me back into the now.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I mean, maybe, yes. I must have left it unlocked because how else could they have got in?’

‘Exactly! I go home for one evening. One evening to be with my little girl and you’re drinking at work and fucking things up.’

‘Esther! I wasn’t drunk…’

‘No, Neve, no!’ she shouted, silencing me. ‘I get that you’re having a tough time. I do. And I’m sorry Oliver left you, it’s really shit. But it has to stop affecting this place.’ Her voice became softer, harder to hear. She sounded hurt. ‘It has to stop affecting me and my life. I have bills to pay, a child to feed.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sick of you telling me you’re sorry,’ she said, holding my gaze. ‘I am. We’ve known each other a long time; we’ve been through it all, haven’t we? I’ve been at your side through thick and thin, but I can’t keep doing this, Neve.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Your life falls apart, I fix it. It was all right when we were twenty-one and at uni and you were falling in love and breaking up every ten minutes – or when you cut yourself off from the world because of what happened to that girl you used to know. It was all right that night in the club when…’

She didn’t finish her sentence; she didn’t need to. I thought of that night, and how she’d held me, soothed me, until help arrived.

‘But we’re adults now. I’m an adult now. You’re still you. Living from day to day, doing what feels right in the moment. Never moving forward.’

‘I was moving forward. Oliver and I…’

‘Oliver despaired that you wouldn’t let him in. You know that, right?’

‘What, he talked to you about it?’

‘He told me, more than once, that he was struggling because you wouldn’t tell him about your past. He thought you were so secretive. You and he split up because you can’t take responsibility for your problems.’

‘Esther, that’s hardly fair,’ I said, choking back tears.

‘What’s not fair is that we’re now completely skint, and I have my baby to feed, Neve – that’s what’s not fair.’

Her words sucked the air from my lungs.

‘Go home, Neve.’

‘What?’

‘You look like shit, and I can’t face you right now. Just go home. I’ll deal with this, get the door boarded and tidied up.’

‘But…’

‘Seriously, just go. And if you really wanna help, perhaps think of an idea that can save this café.’

‘What? The café is fine. Besides this, we’re doing OK.’

‘I can’t keep doing “OK”, Neve, I can’t,’ she said, getting up. ‘We both know this has turned out to be a lot tougher than we thought it would be. I don’t mind the long hours, I don’t. But I can’t afford to work for nothing.’

‘Esther, it will be…’

‘And we’ve just lost what, £2,000, £3,000?’

‘Close to £3,500,’ I said quietly.

‘How are we going to get that back? How are we going to pay our rent on this place, let alone my mortgage? Tell me, how?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, tears pressing in the back of my eyes.

‘Go home, Neve. Get yourself sorted out, you’re a mess,’ Esther said with an air of finality. I watched her get up and grab her phone. She must have dialled 111 because she asked me to get the crime reference number. I did as she asked, and when she started to talk into the phone about the stolen money, I grabbed my coat and left.

Chapter 7

20th November 2019

Evening

I had tried to call Esther three times during the day; each time it rang and rang before going to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. And just in case I wasn’t already feeling shitty enough, I stupidly tried to call Oliver too. It rang once and then disconnected, like he had seen who was calling and hit the cancel button. Great. Despite being home for most of the day, those two small things were the sum of what I had accomplished. I was being pathetic. I knew Esther would calm down eventually. I hoped the stolen money would be insured but if the safe had been left open after all, I didn’t think it would be. I also hoped that, despite my mistake, the landlord would be sympathetic, as would our customers. We would have a tough few weeks, but we would survive long enough for us to work out what to do to save our business. The way Esther looked at me today, I knew she was just about ready to give up on The Tea Tree if we didn’t do something to lift our game and pay us both a proper salary. I didn’t blame her; she’d been doing very well working for the marketing department of some corporate giant before we spoke of my insane idea of opening a café together. If I was her, I probably would have given up a year ago. No, I definitely would have given up, because apparently that’s what I do. I run away from my problems.

Then I thought about it properly – maybe some time apart wasn’t such a bad idea. I didn’t want to run away from Esther, not in a million years. She had been my first true friend since leaving my childhood home all those years ago. She was one of the few people who knew that Chloe Lambert – the girl who was once all over the news, the girl who was never found – was my best friend. She knew about the man I saw back then, the Drifter. She knew about my dad; she knew about the village I grew up in. I trusted Esther more than I trusted anyone else in the world, even Oliver. I couldn’t afford to lose her from my life. But if I stepped back a little, let her run The Tree Tea on her own, just for a few weeks, she could take all of the income and pay herself properly, and I would get a break to sort my head out. It was perfect. She would make good money, and I would return fresh and sober and full of ideas of what we could do to expand our café. The more I thought about it, the better the idea became. I looked at my online banking, the joint account still in mine and Oliver’s names, and saw that what was left had remained untouched. I’d half expected him to take it, but he hadn’t – he was better than that.

I ran the numbers; I had enough sat in our joint account to pay my household bills for a couple of months. My personal account didn’t speak the same tale, but my two credit card balances were quite low. I would be all right for a couple of months without any other income. If the stolen money wasn’t covered by insurance, that would surely help, and even if it was, I’d still take leave of absence. Once I was back, I’d chip away at my credit cards until I cleared the balances. It might take a year, but that was far better than losing either my business or my best friend. Closing my banking app, I rang Esther’s number again; I was going to leave a message, outlining my thoughts. But after the third ring, she picked up.

‘Hey, Esther, are you all right?’

She sighed on the other end of the phone. ‘Tired.’

‘Yeah, I bet. Listen…’

‘No, Neve, let me speak. I’m still angry, you know? I’m angry you’ve let yourself get into such a mess lately, I’m angry this business isn’t doing what I know it could do. I’m angry some little shits robbed us. I’m really angry about that.’

‘I know.’

‘But that still didn’t give me the right to speak like I did to you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘Don’t be sorry, I deserved it.’

‘No, Neve.’

‘Esther, it’s OK. I know I’m a mess.’

‘Neve, you’re not a mess.’

‘I am, I always have been – ever since you’ve known me. Oliver was right, I didn’t let him in, I pushed him away with my inability to let go of things, and I’m doing the same to you. I know I have to change.’

‘You’re not pushing me away.’

‘Esther, let’s be honest. You shouldn’t have to scrape by.’

‘What else can we do?’

‘I’ve had an idea.’

I told her my plan, and at first she dismissed it, but the more we talked, the more receptive she became.

‘Esther, I know I’ve not been great these past few weeks, and I’ve dumped loads on you. With me taking a break, I’m making your life easier. A bit of time to sort my shit out and I’ll come back with ideas, energy, and we can fix this. I’m not walking away – let’s call it a sabbatical.’

‘How will you survive without an income, Neve?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got my credit cards.’

‘But then you’ll end up in a load of debt.’

‘Better to have a little debt I can pay off over time, than to lose our business, and you.’

‘Neve… are you sure about this?’

‘We both know it’s the right thing.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ she said after a pause.

‘I’ll come in tomorrow and up to the weekend and help, and then we’ll start afresh on Monday.’

‘I doubt we’ll open tomorrow.’

‘Then I’ll come anyway, and help.’

‘Honestly, Neve, there isn’t much you can do. It’s mainly waiting for the glass company to fit a new door. I’ll be fine. Start your break now. The sooner you go, the sooner you’re back.’

‘You really think it’s a good idea?’ I asked, suddenly doubting myself.

‘I hate to say it, but yes. I think you need the space to deal with what’s going on in your life and…’

She didn’t finish her sentence, but we both knew what she was going to say. She needed a break from me and my misery.

‘OK, my phone will stay on, and I promise I’ll come back sooner if you need me to.’

‘Thanks. What will you do with your time?’

‘Sort myself out.’

In the background, I heard Tilly calling for help on the potty. It felt good that, despite all this, something was still normal, still so utterly normal.

‘I better go.’

‘OK, Esther, I’ll… I’ll see you soon?’

‘Yep, see you soon.’

The line went dead and for a moment I kept the phone to my ear. That was it, I had officially stepped away from my business. Now I had, it felt incredibly impulsive. But Esther didn’t stop me, so it had to be right? Getting up, I walked into the kitchen and rifled around for something to eat. I found an old packet of Quavers at the back of a cupboard and opened them. What I really needed was a drink: a big, stiff, strong drink, one that hurt to swallow and tasted awful. I needed to be numbed, just for one more night, and then tomorrow, I would start to rebuild myself. But, thankfully, I didn’t have anything in. It meant I had to start now.

Feeling blue, I wanted to look at Oliver’s Facebook wall, to see if anything had changed since I last checked a few hours ago. But before I could stalk his profile, I saw I had a new friend request from someone I once knew and had wanted to forget. My old childhood friend, Holly. Seeing her picture made my stomach feel uneasy. I had been tagged in a post, by her, linking an article from a local paper close to where I had grown up. The headline floored me.

CONCERNS DEEPEN FOR LOCAL MISSING MAN, JAMIE HARDMAN

Jamie.

I didn’t read the article but jumped onto his private Facebook page. I saw his face; one I’d not seen in a long time. He hadn’t changed much. Still the same cheeky smile. Still the same mischievous glint in his eye I once found so attractive. As I read his timeline my heart sank. People had posted on his wall, lots of people, all saying similar things. They all asked him to come back, they all wondered if he was OK, and a sense of déjà vu washed over me.

Jamie, my first, had gone missing.

Just like Chloe.

Chapter 8

20th November 2019

Evening

He was missing. The first boy I’d ever loved was missing. I should have been concerned for him, but really, I was more concerned about what it really meant. Missing. There had to be some mistake? I tried to deduce from the messages posted on his Facebook wall in what context he could be unaccounted for, but I couldn’t. It unnerved me, but the article didn’t mean something terrible had happened to Jamie. He could have moved out of town without telling anyone. He could have booked a trip away, a spur of the moment thing. He was an adult, there could be a million reasons as to why he was missing. It didn’t have to mean the same thing as it did back in 1998. I couldn’t help but think about that shadow outside The Tea Tree. As soon as the thought landed, I dismissed it. There was no way it was connected.

Taking my phone into the kitchen, Jamie’s face dominating the screen, I looked again for something to drink. I knew I shouldn’t, but that seven-letter word shook me. Missing. Problem or not, I needed steadying, and a drink was the only thing that would do that. On my hands and knees, I looked into the dark corners of my booze cupboard and found an old bottle of crème de menthe that had sat in there for God knows how long. A joke gift from a friend that we drank once, despised, and put away never to drink again. I grabbed a mug from the draining board, poured a healthy measure and downed it. It made me shudder, like drinking sweet mouthwash, but I felt it warm my stomach. Pouring another I sat at the breakfast bar, transfixed by Jamie’s profile picture. He hadn’t aged well, becoming a fatter, greyer version of the boy I once knew. He was smiling in the photo, his teeth stained, probably through cigarettes, but he had a sadness in his eyes, a weight. And I knew why, because I carried the same weight too. Chloe.

The sadness I should have felt as soon as I discovered he was missing came. It seeped from my chest, pushed up my throat and from behind my eyes. Fuck, Jamie was missing. As my eyes glazed, I knocked back my mug of crème de menthe. Though it made me gag, I still poured a third, and the more I drank, the more I felt. Fear, sadness, curiosity even. Things I couldn’t feel any more without something warming my insides.

After the fourth measure went down, I felt the alcohol wave begin to roll over me, and I needed to know Jamie was OK. I’d not wanted to know anything about him in twenty years. The summer Chloe disappeared, I ran away to live with Mum, abandoning Dad who had already been tossed aside by the mine closing the winter before. I abandoned my friends and the villagers who were grieving. I’d intended to stay with Mum for a short while, but weeks became months, which turned into years. Once I left, there was no looking back. And the village, being as small and isolated from the rest of the world as it was, never forgot. I was hated, just like my mum was, and I had made peace with that long ago.

I accepted Holly’s friend request and said hello. I assumed she had added me to tell me about Jamie, but I didn’t mention it. All I could do was wait, and hope she replied. I put on my coat and shoes, grabbed my keys and headed into the cold, wet night. I knew I shouldn’t, I knew I should stay at home, wait for a reply, perhaps try and get an early night. But I walked to my local Tesco anyway to buy myself a bottle of wine, reasoning that I would only have one glass, just to calm my frayed nerves.

Chapter 9

21st November 2019

Morning

I wake with a start, like I’ve been holding my breath in my sleep and my body has subconsciously forced me to take air into my lungs. I’m aware of a familiar smell once again, but before I can place it, it fades. I roll onto my side; I don’t even bother to try and open my eyes. They already hurt too much.

Reaching behind me I feel for Oliver. I don’t know why; this time I know he isn’t there. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking that the last few weeks had been a weird and incredibly vivid dream. I cough and a pain shoots through me. Then I realise I’m still fully clothed, and soaking wet – it was raining when I left last night, so I must have been so drunk that I’d not undressed. Lifting up my top, I see there is a deep purple bruise on my side.

Though the damp bedsheets are starting to make me feel clammy and cold, I don’t move straight away – I need to piece together everything up to just now. It hurts to think. Slowly I recall the shop being robbed, the safe being left open by me. I remember stepping away and wanting life to be easy again, and Jamie. Oh God, Jamie. Reaching across to my bedside table, I grab my iPhone and swipe across the screen, not noticing the crack – a small shard of glass cuts my thumb. Opening Facebook, I go back to Jamie’s page but notice there’s a new message waiting in my inbox. It’s from Holly.

Neve, it’s been a long time? Thank you for accepting my friend request. I’m shocked we weren’t already connected. I’m sure we were once?

We were, as I was to the rest of my childhood friends. When I first joined Facebook about a decade after Chloe disappeared, it seemed like it would be OK to reconnect, but all it did was dig up old skeletons, things I didn’t want to remember. So, over the years, one by one, I deleted them all and changed my surname on Facebook to my mother’s maiden name. Holly must have really been looking for me. I read on.

Listen, I’m just going to come out and say it. I don’t know if you have seen that article I sent you about Jamie, but he disappeared three days ago. It’s such a shock to us all. I know you and he were once close, so wanted you to find out from one of us before you saw it somewhere else. Yesterday, there was a news crew in the village, digging up the past, and Chloe.

I felt my heart drop. I didn’t want to relive a single second of back then.

In fact, Jamie and I spoke of her only a few weeks ago. I guess that’s the most worrying thing. I want you to know, no one is angry at you for leaving, we were just kids. If I’d had somewhere, anywhere to go, I might have done the same. Let me know if you want to come back, if you feel the pull to help. I’ll make sure I’m there to meet you, if you want. It would be nice to see you, and I know everyone else feels the same way as I do. I hope you’re doing well. You seem really happy in your pictures on here. Congratulations on your engagement and business success. Holly.

Until then, I’d not considered going back, but knowing Jamie was missing and I was being welcomed by Holly stirred something deep within, something akin to the feeling when you smell something that takes you back to a moment in your past. They didn’t hate me. I was welcome back, and Holly was sweet for suggesting she would meet me. She was seeing it from my perspective, even with the horrible circumstance that had brought us back together. I almost messaged back telling her I would be there, but there was one other person I had to check in with before I returned to the village. I had to speak to my dad.

The phone rang seven or eight times, and I was just about to give up when the line connected. There was noise, like the microphone being dragged through a jumper, before he spoke.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Dad, it’s me, Neve.’

There was a pause. Longer than there should have been.

‘Neve. Are you well?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I lied, the smell of stale alcohol lingering on my breath, my head screaming at me to never drink again. ‘I am. Are you?’

Again, another long pause.

‘Yes, yes. I’m fine. Yes. All right, thank you. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

‘Yes. Did you hear about Jamie?’

‘Who?’

‘Jamie, my old friend. Jamie Hardman?’

‘Oh, yes, yes. Terrible news. Terrible.’

‘I was thinking of coming back, to help?’

This time, the silence was so long I thought the line had disconnected. ‘Hello? Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘What do you think? Should I come back and help find him?’

‘Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? It wouldn’t hurt, the poor man needs all the help he can get.’

I didn’t know what he meant by that. Dad and I rarely spoke, and if we did it was always about me, London, my business and Oliver. I can’t remember the last time we spoke about anyone from the village.

‘So, I should come back?’

‘Yes. Maybe, yes.’

I waited for him to invite me to stay with him, but he didn’t.

‘Dad, can I come to yours?’

‘Yes, yes. That would be all right. OK. I’ll see you soon. Bye, Neve.’

‘OK, can I come this week…’

Dad hung up before I could ask how soon I’d be welcome. After twenty-one years of being dismissed by the man, I thought I would be used to it. But it hurt just as much as it always had. That said, he had agreed I could stay with him, which, if I was honest, was more than I expected. It meant I had to get a few things packed, and go. If I didn’t do it now, I would lose the courage.

I tried to remember the last time I went back to the village. I know Oliver and I were together, but I don’t recall mentioning him to Dad, so it must have been early days – six years ago, nearer seven probably. I had to think hard as to why I was there at all. Then it came to me: I popped in to see Dad for a quick cuppa (he always made it too sweet) on my way back from seeing a friend in Sheffield, and can’t have stayed for more than half an hour. My previous visit must have been when I was in my early twenties. Again, I didn’t see anyone other than him, and no one knew I was coming. The time before that was the day I left. Two short visits in twenty-one years. Two too many in my opinion.

I shuddered at the thought of being in the village again, walking down the main road as I did as a child, seeing that bloody mine and its inhabitants everywhere I turned. Holly hadn’t mentioned a meeting place, but I knew where I would find her. It was the same place we met back in 1998 when we began the search for Chloe. The same place every wake for every funeral was held, including Chloe’s, although she was never officially found. The Miners’ Arms. I wondered what the atmosphere in the old pub would be – would people be optimistic, energised even, like when Chloe disappeared, or would they be their usual sullen, grey selves? I’d be finding out soon enough. Because I was going home.

I was going back to the village.

Chapter 10

June 1998

Five weeks before…

It didn’t take long for the forlorn security hut to feel like something the group could own. Over the past week they had smuggled in a few small beanbags, while Georgia had brought some posters from her bedroom to give the place a homey feel, and Jamie had brought his dad’s old caravan fridge, only to discover the electricity didn’t work after all. Still, Baz agreed that it would be a good place to store whatever booze they had as nobody would mind drinking it warm. To compensate, Jamie also took his dad’s battery-operated radio, allowing the group to listen to the chart show on a Sunday night, and play cassette tapes, and despite their varying musical tastes, they didn’t argue. The space was theirs, a seven-way joint custody of their own place, and they knew they needed to compromise to ensure it stayed a haven from the village. So Baz listened to his drum and bass, Chloe listened to Robbie Williams, and Jamie listened to the hip hop he currently enjoyed. The music didn’t matter, only that it was their music, in their space, at a volume of their choosing.

But it wasn’t quite perfect, not for everyone, even with the music and posters and alcopops. The hut made Holly feel uncomfortable. She had tried to voice it to Neve and Jamie on the walk there, stating that the place gave her the creeps, but her complaints were quickly dismissed. The lane was spooky, yes, they all agreed. But that was only because of the stories told to them as kids to stop them venturing towards the dangerous mine. They had worked, too, because no one – not even Baz – had suggested they explored the abandoned space, and tunnels below.

When Baz and Michael first introduced the group to the hut, their excitement was infectious – they all agreed it was the best idea the hopeless pair had ever had. By the time they left two hours later, they’d vowed to make it their own. The group had met most evenings that week, Wednesday being the only night they didn’t because Jamie had to work for his dad. It had become an unspoken rule of the hut: if someone couldn’t come, the gang shouldn’t meet. This Saturday, Jamie was supposed to be at work again, but Baz and Michael insisted Jamie take the evening off.

Michael arrived first, lighting the candles to give the place some atmosphere. Flopping onto a beanbag, he sighed and watched the shadows dance on the ceiling, proud of what he and Baz had achieved. The group were due to meet at eight, but he had intentionally arrived thirty minutes early so he could take it all in. He hadn’t had a space he could call his own before, a bedroom where he could shut the door and forget the world. His grandparents’ place was only a one-bed, and although they converted the small dining room attached to the lounge into a bedroom, it had never quite felt like something that was his. The stud wall was thin, and his granddad often stayed up into the early hours watching the television with the volume up so loud the speakers rattled. Michael didn’t complain though – he loved them dearly and was grateful to them for taking him in, for not having him become a kid in the care system when his own mother couldn’t cope. He needed the hut more than anyone else, just to give himself some breathing space.

Turning on the radio, he nestled into the beanbag and put his hands behind his head. As Dave Pearce chatted with guests he hadn’t ever heard of, a new boy band of some kind, he closed his eyes. Luckily for him, the chat didn’t last long, and Will Smith began to rap his latest hit. He thought about skinning up a joint but didn’t. He would wait for Baz who would want to share it and was better at rolling than he was. After several more songs and several more questions fired from Dave Pearce to the boy band, Baz crawled through the hatch, making Michael jump.

‘Shit, Baz.’

‘Thought I was the boogie man.’

‘Thought you were the police more like.’

Baz scrambled up onto his feet and chuckled.

‘You been here long?’

‘Just got here,’ Michael lied.

‘I can’t wait for tonight,’ Baz said, rubbing his hands together.

‘What are you up to?’ Michael asked, noticing Baz’s scheming smile.

‘Nothing.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Well, I was thinking…’ Baz started, sitting down beside Michael and throwing his feet onto the badly damaged walnut coffee table. ‘We won’t be hanging out much now – the exams are nearly done, and we won’t be at school. Jamie will work more, which means Neve will no doubt be in the pub more.’

‘Why would she be in the pub more?’

‘Oh, come on, can’t you see that they have a thing going on?’

‘Jamie and Neve?’ Michael said, unable to hide his disappointment. ‘Is something really going on with them two?’

‘Not yet, I don’t think. But it will. Trust me, it will,’ Baz replied, raising his eyebrows and digging an elbow in Michael’s side before continuing. ‘Georgia will start her apprenticeship in the salon in Nottingham, Chloe won’t be around as much if Neve isn’t and Holly will begin to drift away from this place – we both know she’s never been sold on the hut.’

‘Shit, that’s sad,’ Michael said.

‘So, with the group’s imminent collapse, I thought we should have a little party.’

Baz took something from his pocket, but in the low light Michael couldn’t make out what it was. He grabbed the torch and angled it towards Baz’s cupped hands to see a small bag with white powder inside.

‘Is that speed?’ he asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Where the fuck did you get that from around here?’

‘My skunk dealer got hold of a bit.’ He smiled.

‘Shit,’ Michael replied, trying to match Baz’s smile, but missing the mark by a long way.

‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s gonna be a good night.’

‘You done this before?’

‘No, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Relax, Michael,’ Baz said, slapping his mate on the shoulder. ‘Everything’ll be fine.’

Michael wasn’t convinced, but didn’t say anything, and instead asked Baz to roll a joint that they could enjoy while they waited for the others to arrive, a request Baz was more than happy to comply with. No sooner had the joint been rolled and lit, the rest of the group joined, apart from Jamie. In spite of the darkness in the hut, they could all see the fresh cut on Georgia’s lip which she tried to cover with dark lipstick. They all saw it, but they didn’t say anything.

‘You think his dad has made him work?’ Baz asked Neve.

‘Why would I know?’ she said.

‘Well, cos, you and him—’

‘Me and him what? Nothing is going on between Jamie and me.’

‘She’s telling the truth,’ Chloe chipped in.

‘And I don’t want anything to happen between us either,’ Neve added.

‘Now she’s lying,’ Chloe said, nudging her friend and drawing a laugh from Baz and Georgia. Blushing, Neve tucked her hair behind her ear and caught Georgia’s eye. She couldn’t tell if she was laughing with her or enjoying her embarrassment.

‘Well, he said to me earlier his dad was cool for him to have the night off work,’ said Michael, unknowingly rescuing Neve. ‘So, I guess we wait.’ He and Baz shared a conspiratorial smile.

‘What are you boys up to?’ asked Holly, who until then had remained quiet.

‘You’ll see, when Jamie gets here.’

No sooner had Baz finished his sentence the hatch door opened and in crawled Jamie.

‘Speak of the devil.’

‘Sorry I’m late. Dad needed help changing a barrel, what have I missed?’

‘Nothing,’ said Neve a little too quickly, drawing smiles from the group and making Baz chuckle.

‘What?’ Jamie smiled, but with the hint of paranoia creeping across his face.

‘Honestly, its nothing,’ said Georgia, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the arm. Probably to piss Neve off more than anything.

‘Right then, now we’re all here I’d like to say something,’ said Baz, moving around the coffee table to place himself against the wall where the security window used to be.

‘We’ve been friends all the way through primary and secondary school,’ he began in a clear, commanding voice. He’d obviously rehearsed his speech. ‘We survived our teachers. Our lessons. We’ve survived the boredom of Mr Law’s science class and him droning on and on. We survived our mock exams and the ball-ache of revision. And now, we’re just five short days from the beginning of the end of our school journey.’

‘Christ, you sound just like Mr Kessell. What was his speech about anyway?’ Jamie said, changing the subject, much to Baz’s annoyance.

‘Just saying what he needs to, to get us out the door,’ Michael said.

‘You think?’

‘Sure, that’s all a head teacher cares about. Getting us to the finish line, and then pushing us away.’

‘Well, I liked his speech today,’ Chloe said. ‘About how if we worked hard and did well, we could do anything we wanted. It’s hopeful.’

‘It’s deluded,’ Michael said.

‘Anyway!’ Baz interrupted. ‘Can I continue?’ He cleared his throat and picked up where he left off. ‘As I said, we are just five short days from the beginning of the end of our school journey.’

‘Baz, this is a bit over the top,’ said Michael, prompting a punch on the arm from Georgia.

‘Shut up, I’m enjoying this.’

‘Thank you, Georgia.’ Baz still sounded as if he was delivering a speech. ‘And as much as I don’t give a flying fuck about these exams, I know you all do, my friends. I know what these exams mean to you and I know that until this nightmare is over, you will be cramming in unnecessary knowledge in order to get a piece of paper telling you that you’re smarter than I am.’

‘Baz, do you want to…’ began Holly, not enjoying the speech as much as everyone else.

‘So…’ he interrupted. ‘I have convened this gang meeting – insisting Jamie had the night off – so we could all be together to toast our futures.’

‘But we haven’t finished our exams yet, Baz – what exactly is there to toast?’ said Holly, looking at her watch, wishing she was at home studying.

‘We’re doing this now because no matter what happens with our exams, I know everyone here is going on to do great things. We’re celebrating because regardless of how well you do, Holly, and how shit I do, we will all be OK.’

Holly nodded to Baz, shocked that underneath all of the practical jokes and boisterous behaviour there was someone who was thoughtful and kind. Holly didn’t like Baz much, but in that moment, she warmed to him in a way she hadn’t before.

‘So, let’s all say what we want for our lives. I’ll go first. I want to be a pilot.’

‘A pilot?’ Michael laughed. ‘Aren’t you a bit fat?’

‘Michael!’ Holly snapped. ‘Don’t be a dick!’

‘Yeah, Michael, don’t be a dick,’ Baz echoed, but smiling at his best mate. ‘What do you want to be then?’

‘A mechanic.’

‘I want to be a barrister,’ Holly said, beaming with ambition. ‘What about you, Neve?’

‘I don’t know what kind, but I want my own business.’

‘Jamie, Chloe?’

‘I want to write,’ said Jamie, quietly. ‘Not like books or anything, but for a paper maybe?’ He waited for someone to shoot a comment, laugh at him, but no one did.

‘I want to be a midwife,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve always wanted to help babies.’

They looked to Georgia who hadn’t volunteered like everyone else and waited.

‘I just want to get out of this place,’ she said, smiling, but without a hint of mirth.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Unsure what to say or do next, Georgia looked away, uncomfortable. Baz cleared his voice again, and giving Georgia a squeeze on the arm, he spoke.

‘So, this evening, we drink, we laugh, we talk of the future, and we do so safe in the knowledge that regardless of what happens this summer with our exams and our results, we will all get what we want out of our lives.’

‘Nice speech, Baz,’ said Jamie, as he started to give a round of applause, prompting everyone else, including Holly, to clap and cheer.

Baz took three mock bows, then took out the small bag containing the speed. ‘Let’s make this night one we will never forget.’

Chapter 11

22nd November 2019

Afternoon

Between deciding to go back to the village and actually beginning the journey, there was just less than twenty-four hours, but to me it felt like a week. I tidied my flat, removing Oliver’s pictures and putting them in a box in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was tough, definitive, but I needed to do it. After, the living room felt empty, sterile. And then it was time to leave, and a sick feeling rose in my stomach. There was nothing to suggest Jamie had actually come to harm, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something terrible had happened in the village, again.

I could have booked a train to go home, but instead decided to hire a car – the idea of not being able to leave the village when I wanted made me uncomfortable. As I left the flat to go collect it, I felt a growing trepidation build.

I had no idea how my return would go down. I hoped enough time had passed for me to slip in unnoticed, or if people did recognise me, they would realise I was a different person. I was no longer the scared, sad and abandoned 16-year-old girl; I hoped enough time had passed for them to understand why I left, a frightened child grieving for her best friend. But I wasn’t convinced people would see it like that. The village was small, the people clung on to the past, more so than in any other place I’d been to since leaving. Perhaps it was the miner’s mentality. I knew from the infrequent times I saw Dad, he still defined himself through the mine. People in the village didn’t forget things – they hadn’t moved on, I guess, because they didn’t have anything to move on to. They were born not into the village, but into the mouth of the mine. Then, after it closed, and Chloe went missing, the village was torn apart by grief, and frozen in that moment.

I often pondered what I would be like if I’d stayed, and if my old friends would still be my friends. Would I have stayed with Jamie and now be a scared or grieving wife? I stopped myself. It was pointless wondering about a life that hadn’t existed.

I took the Overground to Southall and walked half a mile to pick up the Vauxhall Corsa that would be mine for a week just before the car hire place closed for the evening. I paid the hefty deposit on my credit card and they handed over the keys. In my mind, I would stay only a few days at most.

As I drove out of West London towards the M40, I tried not to imagine those first few moments when I would step back into the village. Instead, I listened intently to what the DJ was saying on Radio 1, and the songs that she played. I soon realised I didn’t know any of them, and so put on my classics playlist and settled as Savage Garden’s Darren Hayes serenaded me with ‘Truly Madly Deeply’. It took me back to a memory of Chloe, of us the year before we sat our exams. She loved that song and would sing it at the top of her voice, often out of tune. Once, Baz caught her doing so, and she blushed to the scarlet of our school jumpers. Thinking about that made me smile. It had been a long time since I’d smiled about Chloe. After Savage Garden, Madonna came on, followed by Texas. And I felt myself slip into a comfortable nostalgia where I remained until I saw the headstocks of the mine, the sight of them rekindling the same fear as it had when I was young, and I couldn’t stop myself from shivering.

I hoped, as it had been so long, they would be smaller than I remembered. If anything, they were larger, more imposing. The dark towers loomed ahead, the headstocks’ wheels like eyes, guarding the dead that resided down the mine against ever leaving. It also watched the people living above ground, spying their mistakes, learning their secrets. From up there, the villagers must look like ants, scurrying around the aged, dying colony. I turned the music off, almost as if I didn’t want the mine to know I was coming. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a car approaching quickly behind me. I assumed they would see the road was clear, and then overtake, but they didn’t. I sped up a little, realising I was doing about forty-five in a sixty zone, but the car behind didn’t slow, it drew closer and closer until it was so close, I couldn’t see it in my side mirrors.

The road we were on was narrow, and I couldn’t find anywhere to pull over to let whoever was behind me pass. Focusing on the road ahead, of which I could only see a hundred yards at a time, I started to panic. My foot went down and the speedometer crept up until I was doing just shy of 80 mph. The car behind stayed on my tail, and I was sure it was going to shunt me. Then, white marks reappeared as the road widened and the car swerved round me and carried on recklessly, careering up ahead. I took my foot off the accelerator, and the car started to slow. I was swearing under my breath, sweating under my jumper. It was obviously just some kids, doing what all kids do when they feel invincible, but for a moment, I thought they were trying to get me. To hurt me. I felt stupid for even thinking it. Paranoid and stupid. Chloe disappeared a long time ago, and life had moved on. I shouldn’t assume people would still be angry with me for leaving. Why would they be? There are more pressing things at hand, like the reason I was coming back now. Jamie.

Despite this realisation, I still felt like I was going to be sick, so I pulled over and got out of the car. It was cold and the wind strong. To my right, the mine watched me curiously. I almost said something to it but stopped myself. Instead, I got back into the car and drove slowly into the village. Maybe subconsciously I thought if I moved quietly, I wouldn’t be noticed. I drove past the old social club, remembering how business took a nosedive just months after the mine closed. Now, its windows were boarded up and the sign outside was paint-stripped and weather-beaten. Thick weeds grew through cracks in the tarmac of the car park. It was the first thing you saw inside the village, I guess, it summed the place up well. It looked like no one had been around for decades. I hoped the same wouldn’t be said for The Miners’ Arms. I needed a drink before seeing Dad. Without slowing, I continued towards the centre. It was time to let someone know I was back.

Chapter 12

22nd November 2019

Evening

As I made my way to the other end of the village, I could see the smaller working man’s pub Jamie’s father used to own ahead of me. Its sign was lit, suggesting it was still in business. I wanted nothing more than to have a peaceful drink as I familiarised myself with the place I once called home. To breathe in its smells, and deal with the inevitable memories I wouldn’t want to recall.

Parking outside The Miners’ Arms, I kept my head low and darted inside. It was exactly as I remembered from when I was too young to drink. The walls were still adorned with photographs throughout the years of the pits in operation. I didn’t need to look, I remembered what was in each of the frames. There were smiling men in short-sleeved shirts in the dead of winter, veins bulging in their forearms from the grafting they did day in, day out. Photographs of them erecting the headstocks, which were the tallest ever erected in England. Overhead images of before and after the mine was closed in 1997. Above the bar hung postcards of the mine, their corners curled through age, the white of the paper now a nicotine-stained yellow. The pub was scruffier than back when I was young, but the smell hadn’t altered at all. And for a moment I was back in the summer when Jamie and I were madly in love. The biggest difference between now and then was this place was once busy – people laughing, joking, and eventually drowning their sorrows after their livelihoods changed. Now the pub was near-empty, except for a few old men, perched on bar stools, looking into their pints.

I approached the bar and waited for the barman, who had his back to me doing something in the till. As I waited, I could hear rain start to hit the window to my right. At first it was light, gentle, but soon picked up to become a full winter deluge. It made me feel colder. On a night like this, there was nothing better than a warm whiskey and a log fire. The drink wouldn’t be an issue. But the fireplace that sat in the middle of the pub looked like it hadn’t been lit in a very long time. I half expected there to be weeds cracking thought the flue, much like the car park of the social club.

The barman, his back still to me, asked what I wanted, and before I could see his face, I knew who it was – to my horror, it was Jamie’s dad. His ‘forty a day’ voice was unmistakable. I wanted to turn and leave but was frozen to the spot and, as our eyes met, there was a hint of recognition from him behind his tired, sleep-deprived expression. It quickly faded. I collected myself and ordered a whiskey and Diet Coke and he nodded. As he made my drink, I watched him. His movements were slow, deliberate, like it was taking all of his effort to complete the task, a sloth moving along the thick branch of a tree. I couldn’t begin to understand how he must have been feeling. But wondered, why wasn’t he out looking for his son? Then I thought about it. Where else would he be? Jamie had been missing for four days. He obviously wasn’t close by, and if I was his father, I’d want to be somewhere Jamie could find him when he decided to come home. I almost offered a kind word. I didn’t. Instead, I thanked him for my drink, and sat beside the fireplace.

If anything it was colder in front of it as the wind whipped down the chimney breast. But the chill didn’t last long, as the warmth of my drink soon spread through me. I took off my damp coat and slung it over the back of the Chesterfield chair to dry before walking back to the bar and ordering another from Jamie’s dad. Seated again I held it in both hands, like a child with a plastic cup and I looked into the fireplace trying to picture a log burning and the sound it would make as heat cracked the wood. When I was younger, we would sometimes sit in the pub whilst Jamie worked, mocking him in his green polo neck T-shirt with ‘The Miners’ Arms’ embroidered on it. We would laugh and tease as he cleaned tables and washed pint glasses. It was always harmless, and he would often join in. A fire was always on back then. The pub was always warm. Now, it felt so cold I wasn’t sure if the seatback I leant against was damp.

Outside the rain persisted, heavy droplets thrumming against the window with such violence I waited for the glass to crack. The whiskey in my stomach buried the sick feeling I’d had all day, replacing it with a burning that I knew I’d regret tomorrow. But that was then, this was now, and I was beginning to feel less terrified. I drank it quickly and got up to ask for another. Just one more that I would sip as I prepared myself to see Dad. In that time, I hoped the rain would ease. As I approached the bar, Jamie’s dad stopped busying himself and watched me.

‘May I have another?’ I asked quietly, almost like I was the 16-year-old girl I once was, trying her luck at the bar.

‘I’ll make you a double,’ he replied, eyeing me once more with a curious look. ‘Save you coming back so fast.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, embarrassed.

He turned to face the optics and poured two measures. The whole time, he kept an eye on me in the mirror that sat behind the counter.

‘You’re not local,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.

‘No, I guess I’m not.’

‘But you were once, am I right?’

‘Do you recognise me?’

‘I recognise your accent.’

‘Oh.’

‘I guess the question is, should I recognise you?’ he asked as he turned towards me and handed me my drink.

I swallowed hard, unsure of how he would react.

‘I’m Neve Chambers, I was once… umm, friends with Jamie.’

I waited for his gaze to harden, and his tone to either become angry or cold. But the opposite happened, and a sad smile came over his face.

‘It’s been a long time.’

‘It has,’ I said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I’m really sorry for what’s been going on.’

‘Thank you, so am I.’

He poured a double vodka for himself and raised his glass.

‘To Jamie coming home.’

‘To Jamie coming home,’ I echoed, my voice catching in my throat.

‘So, what brings you back here?’

‘I wanted to help, if you’ll allow me to.’

‘Of course, I’m very grateful you’ve taken the time.’

‘I thought you would be upset at me wanting to be here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what happened when Chloe…’ I didn’t finish my sentence.

‘That was a very long time ago,’ he said quietly.

‘Feels like yesterday.’

‘Maybe. But it was a different life. How did you find out about Jamie?’

‘Holly connected with me.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled.

There was an uncomfortable silence for the briefest of moments, and I felt his eye appraising me, either in silent judgement or wanting to ask the questions I supposed most people in this village wanted answers to, seeing as I was the last person to speak to Chloe before she vanished. He must have sensed my paranoia, and changed the subject.

‘Are you staying with your father?’

‘Yes,’ I answered too quickly.

‘Tell him Derrick says hello. I’ve not seen your old man in a very long time.’

‘I didn’t know your name; you’ve always been Jamie’s dad,’ I said smiling.

‘Well, that’s my name too, my more important one,’ he replied, a sad smile lifting on the right side of his face once more. ‘He speaks of you often. Jamie, I mean.’

‘He does?’

‘He said you had a business in London?’

‘A café, yes.’

‘He’s really proud of you.’

‘He was? I mean is. Sorry.’ I couldn’t believe I slipped up, speaking of Jamie in the past tense. This place and its ghosts had already begun seeping into my marrow.

‘Yes.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He works here with me still, looks after the place more often than not. It’s not much, but it’s ours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about your café.’

‘Well, it’s not much, but it’s mine,’ I smiled, one he returned.

‘I think my son never quite let go of you in his heart.’

I was taken aback to know Jamie had kept me in his mind. It was quickly followed by the crushing guilt that I hadn’t reciprocated. I buried everything I could about the village, even those I once loved. I finished my drink and without needing to ask, Derrick turned and poured us both another. We raised our glasses again, this time without words, and drank silently. I wanted to ask how Jamie was before he vanished, if he was happy. What his life had been like in the past twenty years. I wanted to say that a part of my heart still belonged to him, my first love. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went to pay for my drinks, and he told me they were on the house.

‘If I can do anything…’

‘I’ll be fine, thank you, Neve.’

Nodding, I walked back to the chair and picked up my coat. Putting it on, I gave Derrick a smile and headed for the door. I looked over my shoulder, but Derrick had already turned his back to me, working away at cleaning glasses that looked unused. And in the furthest corner, around the side of the bar where the old pool table sat, was a man wearing a flat cap. The peak obscured his face from me, and I couldn’t tell if he was looking down at his pint, which was in his hands, or if he was looking directly at me. I didn’t wait to find out. Yet another shiver ran up my spine. Pretending I hadn’t noticed him, I turned and left.

Chapter 13

22nd November 2019

Night

As soon as the cold air hit me, the alcohol that had lain warm and dormant in my stomach sprang to life, making me feel unsteady on my feet. Regardless, I thought if I got out of the rain and back into my hire car, I could still make the mile’s drive to my dad’s house. Reaching the driver’s door, I dug into my bag to find the key, cursing myself for not doing so when I was in the dry pub. Eventually, after several rummages, a handful of swear words and one large bead of ice-cold water that escaped my mane of hair and had run down my neck, I found it. As I pulled it out, it slipped from my hand and landed by my feet. I stooped to pick it up, the image no doubt comparable to an elderly lady trying to fit a shoe, and as I stood up again, I hit my head on the wing mirror hard enough to knock it out of its casing and send a white flash across my eyes. I tried to focus so I could pop the wing mirror back in, but as I attempted to fix it, the whole thing came off in my hands.

Perhaps it was the fact it was raining, or that I was drunk again, or maybe it was being back in the village where Chloe vanished from, but I burst into tears, clutching the broken wing mirror to my chest like it was a teddy. That was how the car that approached from behind, its main beam on, found me. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, which was pointless as I was now soaked through. I felt the car slow as it drew close to me, and I wanted to look, but didn’t. Keeping my head low, I opened the Corsa’s door, dropped the wing mirror on the driver’s seat and closed it again. It wasn’t a good idea to drive; I couldn’t even get into the bloody thing without damaging it.

Stumbling to the back of the car I unlocked the boot, and watched the car pass out of the corner of my eye. I took out my bag, pulled my coat collar as high as it would go, and started to walk. I should have turned right towards Dad’s, but I turned left instead and kept walking. I thought about how I used to spend the evening in or around the pub, waiting for Jamie to finish working. I thought about the two occasions when I waited on my own, before we walked hand in hand in the direction I was now heading. The ground beneath my feet was the path we had walked on twenty-one years before as a couple, before going to the place where we would spend the evening making out. My mind began to drift to one night in particular, where, after meeting near the hut, we snuck into Jamie’s bedroom above the pub via the fire-exit stairs. But as I tried to recall what happened next, I was stopped by the realisation that the boy who was my first love was now missing.

Pushing the thought down, I pressed on, and after a few minutes I stood at the mouth of the lane but the darkness made it impossible to see much. However, I knew, down that lane, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was a brick building that was once ours. A part of me, the curious part, wanted to continue walking down the lane, which felt smaller, narrower than it did back when I was young. I began but stopped after only a few paces. When we were young, all of the lights that lined the path were broken, the power disconnected, but now, far in the distance, one burnt. I guessed that was because of Chloe. A familiar and long-forgotten shudder ran up my spine. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but still I felt spooked and turned to walk away. As I did, something caught the edge of my peripheral vision, a shadow moving quickly through the light cast by the only streetlamp. I spun quickly, almost losing my footing, but I couldn’t see anyone.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounded small, the dark night swallowing it whole. I started walking backwards, uneasy on my feet, and didn’t breathe until I was on the main road. As I moved in the direction of the pub, I convinced myself it was nothing, my mind playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was no one there, no shadow, no person, and certainly no ghosts. I needed to get back to Dad’s, sleep off the booze and tomorrow, I would show my face, and then, go home. There was a reason I didn’t live here anymore, and I felt stupid for thinking that it would be all right, that I would be all right if I came back.

I walked past the pub again, past the hire car that sat lonely out front. After a few minutes I drew level with Chloe’s old house. It was quiet, dark. All of the curtains were drawn. Were it not for a small light on somewhere upstairs, I would think the house was empty. I kept my head down, walked on. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I didn’t know if Chloe’s mum Brenda still lived there, but I wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Up ahead, two lights from a car shone, again, the main beam on – I slowed and shielded my eyes as it passed; the driver was looking towards me. Turning, I watched their taillights as they drove past the pub and out of the village, my gut telling me that although I couldn’t place them, they had recognised me.

I knew I should have gone back to Dad’s and got the awkward moment of saying hello over and done with, but I wasn’t quite ready. There was another place in this village I needed to visit first. Somewhere important. Somewhere I had never been before. Chloe’s grave. The cemetery was a short distance behind Chloe’s house. I remembered, when we were young, when her mother worked evenings, we would look out of her mum’s bedroom window across the gravestones, talking of ghosts walking among them.

With Chloe’s house far enough behind me, I turned and doubled back on myself. Climbing a gate, I began to search for her stone, ashamed that I didn’t know where my childhood best friend had been laid to rest. Eventually, right in the middle of the cemetery, I came across it.

CHLOE LAMBERT

1982-1998

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.

I stood silently, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at the slab of granite in front of me. I expected I would feel something: sadness, regret, even fear. But there was nothing. And I didn’t know why.

Behind me I heard a noise, a cough, and turning quickly, I could make out a person in the cemetery, near the gate I’d climbed over, but I couldn’t make out any details. For a brief moment I thought it was him, the man from our past. They coughed again, and I heard it wasn’t a him at all – it was a woman. She approached and, when she was close enough to see her features, I knew exactly who it was.

Chapter 14

22nd November 2019

Night

‘I heard you were back,’ she said, her voice deep and harsh.

Hearing her voice again after so long made me want to shiver. News travelled fast; it had to have been Derrick. Or maybe Dad expressed more interest than I thought. ‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.

‘Because Jamie has gone missing?’

‘Yes.’

Reaching in her pocket, she took out and lit a cigarette. ‘Want one?’

‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke.’

There was nothing in the way I replied that was funny, but she smiled at me, like she knew something I didn’t.

‘How are you, Brenda?’ I asked, filling the unbearable silence. When we were young, Brenda terrified me. It seemed time didn’t change everything.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said, taking a drag on her cigarette, the glowing tip intensifying, throwing ugly angles on her face. ‘Come to say hello to my daughter?’

‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.

‘It’s a bit weird you’re here in the middle of the night, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so, I’ve just got back. Wanted to pay my respects.’

‘Pay your respects.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s nice,’ she said abrasively, taking another drag on her cigarette, her eyes catching in the glow. Eyes that were hard, unblinking. ‘And then are you going to see your father or run away again?’

I didn’t like her tone, but she intimidated me, so I didn’t challenge it. ‘Yes, I’m staying with Dad for the night.’

‘That surprises me, you’re just like your mother.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘We don’t abandon our own, Neve,’ she said, her eyes steely. She waited for me to reply, but the words caught in my throat. Smiling, she took another drag on her cigarette, looking from me to Chloe’s grave before exhaling. ‘I often come here at night. It’s more peaceful. I get to talk to my daughter without any interruptions.’

‘Interruptions?’ I asked, regretting it instantly.

‘I know some folk here think I had something to do with her disappearance.’ She smiled, bitterly. Taking one more drag she stubbed it out on the top of Chloe’s grave. I recoiled in shock.

‘Well, it’s not like she’s actually buried here, is it, Neve? I’ll leave you to pay your respects,’ she said, turning and walking away.

I watched her scramble over the gate and head back towards the main road. Only once she was out of sight did I let out the breath I had been holding. I didn’t want to be here anymore, so without speaking to Chloe, I walked away. My eye kept being drawn to the window in the row of houses that I knew was Brenda’s bedroom. It was dark, but for a moment, I thought I saw a curtain move, like someone was peering from behind it. It was impossible, there was no way Brenda had managed to get back that quickly. This place… it was already doing funny things to me.

I climbed the fence, almost breaking into a jog as I headed further away from Chloe’s house, the pub, the mine behind them all. After what felt like the longest time, I was standing at the bottom of Forest Road. Up the steep hill, beyond where my eye could see, was Dad’s house. I’d not walked up this hill for over twenty years, the two visits since my childhood I brought a car both times, quickly in, quickly out. When I was a teenager the walk made my calves ache, but it was now so hard I needed to stop on three occasions to ease the burn in my muscles. With laboured breathing I eventually made it to the top of the approach to Dad’s door. Hesitating before stepping onto the front path, I looked at my watch, my eyes struggling to focus on the hands. It was only just after ten thirty, and yet the house was dark. I gingerly made my way to the door, after taking a deep breath.

I rang the doorbell and waited. No lights came on, no movement within, and for a while I thought he was out. But, through a gap in the living-room curtain I could make out the eerie glow of a television screen. Pressing my nose into the glass I cupped my hands and could just about make out the shape of his arm on the chair in front of the TV. I knocked on the window, but he didn’t respond. I knocked louder, longer, and still nothing. A wave of heat flooded into my face – the same feeling I’d had once many, many years ago – and I rushed back to the front door, kicking over a potted plant beside it. I slammed the knocker down three times, loud enough to wake the neighbours, and still nothing. Grabbing the door handle, I turned it, I expecting it to be locked; Dad was a real stickler for locking and bolting the front door like he was sure we would be burgled if he didn’t. To my surprise, it opened, and I knew something was wrong.

I held my breath and moved towards the lounge. From the doorway I could just see the top of his bald head above the high-backed chair he sat in. I listened but I couldn’t hear him breathing. My hands began to shake, and I forced myself to exhale the breath I’d held at the front door, forced myself to take in another. Stepping around the chair I looked at him, his face longer than the last time I saw him, his skin ashen. I shook his shoulder gently and jumped when he sat bolt upright.

‘What, what is it?’ he slurred, getting to his feet and looking around at everything but me stood in front of him.

‘Dad, it’s me,’ I said, startled but relieved.

‘What time is it?’ he said, squinting towards a wall where we once had a clock that was no longer there.

‘It’s late, Dad.’

He looked at me then, and I didn’t see any happiness in his eyes. I hoped he would be delighted his little girl was home. But there was nothing.

‘You woke me.’

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘Well, make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, sounding formal, unsure of how else to behave.

‘Good, good.’

He hesitated, and for a moment, we looked at each other like strangers. I wanted to know what he was thinking, as if I weren’t vulnerable enough already.

‘I’ve had a long drive, and I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna go up.’

‘Yes, it’s late. You should get some sleep.’

‘Shall I sleep in my old room?’

‘Yes, your room is your room.’

‘OK, I’ll see you in the morning?’

‘Yes. In the morning.’

‘Night, Dad.’

‘Bye, Neve.’

I hoped he would get up and hug me, stroke my arm, even ask for a bloody high five. But nothing. I headed for the stairs, taking my time as I ascended. In my peripheral vision, I watched him slump back into his armchair, like I wasn’t even there. When I reach the top, I flicked on a light, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed, nothing in twenty years. The wallpaper was the same, as were the light shades and doors. I could see into the bathroom; the loo and sink were still the same olive green that was all the rage in the Eighties.

I opened the door to the room that was once mine. The single bed was still tucked up against the wall furthest away from the window, on it an old suitcase and a few boxes. Dad had forgotten I was coming. Or he didn’t care. Likely both. The wardrobe still had the corners of posters that had remained stuck with sellotape long after the rest had been torn down, and through the window, the headstocks of the mine looked in. The wheels atop it once spun 24/7 looked like two beady eyes, always watching. I dragged the case and one of the boxes from the bed. The other box was too heavy for me to move on my own, not without creating a deafening bang when I dropped it on the floor. I pushed it against the wall and lay down, curling my body around it like I used to with Oliver when he slept with his back to me. I wanted nothing more than for the alcohol that made the room spin to take me into a booze-infused sleep. But it didn’t and laying there, wrapped around a huge box, I thought of Oliver, of Dad, of Jamie. I thought of Chloe. Turning to face the window I listened to the rain that had started back up, lash against the glass, while the eyes of the headstocks looked in.

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